"And I shall go also," he said, bitterly, "but not with you." Even at that moment Helen Marsh exulted in her own mind to find his words and his steps at variance; he was still by her side. The most perilous of all triumphs is the knowledge of possessing power over the affections of our fellow creatures; it is so especially intoxicating to women as to be greatly dangerous, and those who do not abuse such power deserve much praise. Rose walked timidly behind them, wondering how Helen could have imagined any alliance in the world more brilliant—but no, that was not the idea—any alliance in the world so happy as that with Edward Lynne must be. When they reached the commencement of the village, Edward said, for the fifth or sixth time, "Then you will go, Helen?"
"Certainly."
"Very well, Helen. Good evening."
"Good evening, Edward," was the cool reply. Not one word of adieu did he bestow on Rose as he dashed into another path; while his dog stood for a moment, uncertain as to whether his master would return or not, and then rapidly followed.
"Oh, Helen! what have you done?" murmured Rose. Helen replied by one of those low murmuring laughs which sound like the very melody of love; and the two girls, in a few moments more, were in their own cottage, where Rose saw that evening, for the first time, the gentleman whom Helen had declared she did not prefer to Edward, though she would rather marry him.
CHAPTER III.
I think I have said before that the most trying and dangerous position a young woman can occupy, is that where her station is not defined—where she considers herself above the industrious classes by whom she is surrounded—and where those with whom her tastes and habits assimilate, consider her greatly beneath them. Superficial observers (and the great mass of human beings are nothing more) invariably look for happiness in the class one or two degrees above their own. They would consider themselves absurd if they at once set their minds upon being dukes and princes; they only want to be a little bit higher, only the smallest bit, and never for a moment look to what they call "beneath them" for happiness. This was particularly the case with these young girls. Their station was not defined, yet how different their practice! One was ambitious of the glittering tinsel of the world—the other, refined but not ambitious, sought her happiness in the proper exercise of the affections; neither could have described her particular feelings, but an accurate observer could not fail to do so for them. That night neither girl had courage to speak to the other on the occurrences of the past day, and yet each thought of nothing else. They knelt down, side by side, as they had done from infancy, repeating the usual prayers as they had been accustomed to do. Helen's voice did not falter, but continued its unvaried tone to the end: Rose (Helen thought) delivered the petition of "lead us not into temptation" with deeper feeling than usual; and instead of rising when Helen rose, and exchanging with her the kiss of sisterly affection, Rose buried her face in her hands; while her cousin, seated opposite the small glass which stood on their little dressing-table, commenced curling her hair, as if that day, which had completed a revolution in her way of thinking, had been as smooth as all the other days of her short calendar. The candle was extinguished, and Helen slept profoundly. The moon shone in brightly through the latticed window, whose leaden cross-bars chequered the sanded floor. Rose looked earnestly upon the face of the sleeper, and so bright it was, that she saw, or fancied she saw, a smile of triumph curling on her lip. She crept quietly out of bed, and leaned her throbbing temples against the cool glass. How deserted the long street of Abbeyweld appeared; the shadows of the opposite trees and houses lay prostrate across the road—the aspect of the village street was lonely, very lonely and sad—there was no hum from the school—no inquisitive eyes peeped from the casements—no echoing steps upon the neatly-gravelled footpath—the old elm-tree showed like a mighty giant, standing out against the clear calm sky—and there was one star, only one, sparkling amid its branches—a diamond of the heavens, shedding its brightness on the earth. The stillness was positively oppressive. Rose felt as if every time she inhaled the air, she disturbed the death-like quiet of the scene. A huge shadow passed along the ledge of the opposite cottage; her nerves were so unstrung that she started back as it advanced. It was only their own gentle cat, whose quick eye recognised its mistress, and without waiting for invitation, crawled quickly from its eminence, and came rubbing itself against the glass, and then moved stealthily away, intent upon the destruction of some unsuspicious creature, who, taught by nature, believes that with night comes safety.
Almost at the end of the street, the darkness was as it were divided by a ray of light, that neither flickered nor wavered. What a picture it brought at once before her!—the pale, lame grandchild of old Jenny Oram, watching by the dying bed of the only creature that had ever loved her—her poor deaf grandmother. And the girl's great trouble was, that the old woman could neither see to read the Word of God herself, nor hear her when she read it to her; but the lame girl had no time to waste with grief, so she plied her needle rapidly through the night-watches, not daring to shed a tear upon the work, or damp her needle with a sigh. Rose was not as sorry for her as she would have been at any other time, for individual sorrow has few sympathies; but the more she thought of the lonely lame girl, the less became her own trouble, and she might have gone to bed with the consciousness which, strange to say, brings consolation, that there was one very near more wretched than herself, had she not seen the form of Edward Lynne glide like a spectre from beneath the old elm-tree, and stand before the window. Rose retreated, but still observed him; the moon was shining on the window, so he must have seen the form, without, perhaps, being able to distinguish whose it was. Rose watched him until his silent death-like presence oppressed her heart and brain, and she closed her eyes to shut out what had become too painful to look upon. When she looked again, all was sleeping in the moonlight as before; but he was gone. At the same moment Helen turned restlessly on her pillow, and sobbed and muttered to herself. Rose felt that pillow wet with tears. "Helen!" she exclaimed; "Helen, dear Helen! awake! Awake, Helen!" Her cousin, at length aroused, flung her arms around her neck; and the proud lip which she had left curled with the consciousness of beauty and power, quivered and paled, while she sank awake and weeping on Rose's bosom.